


In My Secret Life

by ruric



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-23
Updated: 2009-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To most of Atlantis Ronon Dex is an enigma and John’s always found those a challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Secret Life

To most of Atlantis Ronon Dex is an enigma and John’s always found those a challenge. 

Solving the mystery of Ronon appeals to John as much as solving math puzzles does. He’s never assumed that because Ronon doesn’t talk much means that he’s got nothing to say. 

John’s learned to listen for the untold stories in the spaces between, in the silences Ronon offers up rather than his words. He’s slowly learning a new vocabulary just in the way Ronon breathes - the soft excited hitch of breath before they step through the gate, the long suffering sigh in briefings or when he’s asked to do his reports. The iron control Ronon exerts when they’re sparring or when he’s been hurt – how deep, shallow or how fast are the breaths - tell John more than words ever could.

He’s never seen anyone quite as at ease in their body as Ronon and he spars with him, watches him, to learn and to understand. The subtle hitch of and turn of his shoulder, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way he sometimes ducks his head and glances down, lips tightening – John’s beginning to see the hidden stories in Ronon’s body language too.

It’s a slow process and John’s in no hurry to push too hard for information Ronon’s not willing to share. Trust is a two way street and has to be built gradually.

But a career in the air force has taught John a great many things and to solve this particular problem the most valuable are stealth, an oblique approach, an element of misdirection and patience.

When Ronon’s lying beside him, fucked-out, sleepy and satiated, John doesn’t think it’s a trick to use every weapon at his disposal to find out what he wants to know. 

Head pushed back into the pillow, brow unfurrowed, the tension melted from his muscles and John can see the man Ronon was before seven years of running left its mark.

Acres of golden skin, stretched over the smooth curve of muscle and bone and Ronon’s body tells as much of a story as his silences and the way he moves.

John’s not fooled by the closed eyes, the sweep of eyelashes or the steady, slow breaths. He can see the pulse still beating hard in the hollow of Ronon’s neck and this has become another kind of game they play – a different kind of sparring.

His hand skims from Ronon’s hip, over jagged and still slightly puckered pink flesh. This a story he knows, a souvenir from their visit to M6R 357 and a population who were wary enough of the gate to greet visitors with spears, arrows and daggers. A miracle that they’d mostly managed to walk away from that with nothing more serious that a few scratches.

Exploring further past the flat, taut belly, rising to Ronon’s his chest, he pauses to press his palm flat to the white scar tissue of the Wraith feeding mark. John doesn’t find it hard to recall how Ronon had ducked away from Teyla’s glance that first day in the clearing too ashamed to see what she was offering was not sympathy but understanding.

John’s fingers move onwards, brushing over a brown nipple which peaks under his touch and John’s dick twitches in response but they have all night and no need to hurry.

A faint pale line over a broad pec, another story to be told and the muscles under John’s fingers ripple, cat slow and lazy, raising his gaze he can see the slight curve of Ronon’s lips.

He lets his fingers continue their exploration dragging slowly over sweat slicked skin past a faded curved scar, no more than an inch long at the hollow of Ronon’s throat, because his goal is now in sight.

This one starts at the end of Ronon’s collarbone, run up and over and John knows it finishes in a small puckered circular mark no bigger than a dime in the middle of Ronon’s shoulder blade. He’s as curious about the weapon that made it as the story behind it.

He knows not all the scars are a result of running or of the fighting Ronon did before Sateda fell, some stretch back to childhood and some were gained in training. Sometimes he picks the wrong one to ask about – a story not ready to be shared and only silence greets his enquiry.

But this? This he wants to hear about.

He lowers his mouth, teeth grazing carefully over the bone where the scar starts, then licks and sucks upwards to the curve of Ronon’s shoulder.

“Tell me about this?”

Soft words breathed into Ronon’s skin and he waits – until the long, slow inhalation of breath tells him this time he got lucky.

“Got that in training with Tyre...”

The deep rumble of Ronon’s voice continues - this practically the only time he’ll speak in sentences of more than 5 words. And John listens, hardly daring to breathe, as Ronon paints pictures of another world, another life, and reveals yet another small piece of himself.


End file.
